September 2008

Now all the heav'nly splendor
Breaks forth in starlight tender
From myriad worlds unknown;
And man, the marvel seeing,
Forgets his selfish being,
For joy of beauty not his own.
--Paul Gerhardt, 1607-1676

It’s a bittersweet time of year, up on the hill. Summer is on the wane, for better or for worse. The vegetable patch is tattered and tired, yet the spindly, anemic-looking plants still produce tomatoes and peppers in surprising quantities. I freely admit to being tired of gardening by this point in the season, but I know I’ll be sorry when the warm evenings are gone again for another year. Even though we are decades beyond the back-to-school rituals, there is a primordial tug of heartstrings each year when the August page on the calendar is flipped over. Never mind that September sees some of the hottest weather of the whole year, and forget about the last official day of summer being weeks off. No, Labor Day puts an end to the season.

But it’s a bittersweet time for other reasons, too. It reminds us that once, a long time ago, terror was something we experienced reading a Stephen King novel, not something our military waged war against. This time of year reminds us of how easily the prosaic and workaday aspects of life can suddenly become precious and heartbreaking. And it reminds us, in a way that chafes and harries, of how vulnerable we really are in this life. For an older generation, there is another day—December 7th—that must evoke the same bittersweet feelings of love and loss, but for me, and so many others, it is September 11th that will always bring me up short, cause a moment’s pause and a quick prayer. September reminds us that life is fleeting, like the days of summer. And over before we are ready, sometimes.

Afterwards, after that awful day, a lot was written about the World Trade Center—the architectural marvels and flaws of its design, the larger-than-life personalities behind the buildings, the iconic status the towers achieved. It was, for some, a modern day Babel—a hubristic attempt to reach heaven. But for most, I think, it was celebrated as an effort to allow those who rode its elevators and looked out its windows to feel free of earthly restraint, to experience the world from a loftier vantage point. To carry out the day-to-dayness of life up in the sky.

Lots of people yearn deeply for that feeling, yearn to be up among the birds and stars. In fact, our neighbor was one of those who loved being up high, flying his plane, living life just a bit closer to what Gerhardt calls “the heav’nly splendor.” And this time of year will now bring him to mind, too; it will remind us that life is unpredictable and that fate is capricious. But we will also remember how this community looked the shock and sorrow of his untimely death squarely in the eye and responded with kindness and support and generosity. I didn’t know my pilot neighbor, nor did many of those who leapt into action after his death. But, just as in 2001, a sense of needing to help—to combat the arbitrary and devastating with actions deliberate and good—surfaced quickly.

For me, September will always be a bit bittersweet, but it also now will be a testament to the people who make up this community—people who are deliberate and good. Fare thee well, neighbor, and Godspeed.